


Abatement

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, John Loves Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Married idiots, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Retirement!lock, Retirementlock, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock has a brand new knee, Top John, bit of angst, but a bit of plot, omg the fluff, sherlock loves bees, sherlock really has the worst self-esteem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4004326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’s wrong with you?  You love the cottage,” John glances over to the passenger seat, then quickly turns his eyes back to the road.  Driving was still not his forte, but considering Sherlock still couldn’t properly bend and lift his new knee enough to press and release the clutch, he had to make do.  Not that Sherlock hadn’t tried to argue his way into the driver’s seat.</p>
<p>“I love the cottage for a week or two, John.  Don’t be deliberately obstuse,” Sherlock grumbles, sinking further in his seat.  Well, as best he can with a four-week-old knee replacement.</p>
<p>“And that’s all we’re going for, love,” John says out loud.  But what he’s thinking is, shit. He knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abatement

**Author's Note:**

> I got a punch of Retirement!Lock inspiration and pounded this shit out.
> 
> My headcanon is that they retire relatively young, at least in our BBC universe. Because they're happy and in love and don't really need The Work, just each other, so they decide to high-tail it out of there relatively early to be dirty old men together.
> 
> Also, SHAMELESS PROMOTION: follow me on tumblr if you are so inclined. [whimsicalethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/)

“What’s wrong with you? You love the cottage,” John glances over to the passenger seat, then quickly turns his eyes back to the road. Driving was still not his forte, but considering Sherlock still couldn’t properly bend and lift his new knee enough to press and release the clutch, he had to make do. Not that Sherlock hadn’t tried to argue his way into the driver’s seat.

“I love the cottage for a week or two, John. Don’t be deliberately obstuse,” Sherlock grumbles, sinking further in his seat. Well, as best he can with a four-week-old knee replacement.

“And that’s all we’re going for, love,” John says out loud. But what he’s thinking is, _shit_. _He knows_.

***

It was a long time coming: years of general Sherlock-abuse and an admittance while he was curled on the floor in pain, after tripping over a pile of clothes he dumped there, that his knee had been rather a point of focus during a torture stint while he was away for those two years, and well, it was coming. The meniscal damage was irreversible, coupled with a veritable Unhappy Triad from falling, and he was off it completely until the entire joint was just scrapped and replaced.

Of course Sherlock was an awful patient under the best circumstances, and this was no exception. But John was secretly pleased, because it allowed him to bring up something he’d been thinking of for a few years at least: when they were going to slow down and finally admit that the life they led two decades ago wasn’t sustainable anymore.

They were old. Well, older. Fifty-four isn’t exceptionally old, but John takes Metformin daily and Sherlock needs glasses to read and the bumps and bruises just don’t heal the way the used to. John’s shoulder would sometimes freeze up for days. Even Sherlock needs a solid six hours of sleep in order to function properly. Plus, Greg was closer to retirement and had risen to a level in the Met where he rarely had active enough involvement to bring them in on the nitty-gritty cases.

And, as they drifted closer to the twilight of their years, John couldn’t help but worry whenever they stepped out of 221B that only one of them would return. They were getting slower and every day it seemed like the inevitable was only getting more…inevitable. John had spent so long waiting for Sherlock to be his, and now that he was, well, it was becoming clearer and clearer that the thrill of a chase was no longer worth even the slightest risk of losing him.

And now Sherlock’s knee; even if his recovery went as well as possible—which it wouldn’t, as Sherlock was the most non-compliant sonofabitch there could be—it would be a solid three or four months before he’d be able to move anywhere near like how he used to.

So, John was grateful for this opportunity. They already owned a cottage in Sussex; Janine had become engaged to an American and Sherlock was the first person she offered it to. They got it at a fairly good price four years ago and spend several weeks off and on there over the summer. It wasn’t ready for year-round living yet, but with a little work it would be lovely. Plus, as Janine explained, it had a pre-set apiary that Sherlock had practically drooled over.

So why not now? It was time, as far as John was concerned.

Three weeks after Sherlock’s operation, and two weeks and five days after he began working on John’s last nerve, John had gotten clearance from Sherlock’s orthopaedist and physical therapist to go out to the cottage for a week. He was cleared from a surgical standpoint (plus John was a real-life doctor), and John had sworn to make sure Sherlock did his exercises.

John had been expecting Sherlock to jump at the opportunity to get out of the flat for a bit. The weather was turning and they’d both discussed before how much work needed to be done so regular trips were a must. What John hadn’t been expecting was for Sherlock’s face to fall, just a bit, before being replaced with the stony mask he hadn’t seen in years when John suggested going out for a week.

Now, as John pulls down the lane leading to the simple stone cottage, he swears he can see Sherlock visibly shrink out of the corner of his eye.

******

Dinner went A Bit Not Good. Sherlock ate two bits of pasta, pushing most of his food around his plate before finally announcing he was finished and pushing up from the table. John heard the cane (his old cane, actually) thump against the wooden stairs as Sherlock went up them slowly, one at a time, before clunking into the large bathroom off their bedroom. The pipes groaned and heaved as the shower turned on.

So much for suggesting they move up here permanently to a happy and relaxed Sherlock.

John cleans up dinner and retreats to the small sitting room with a glass of scotch he found above the fridge before he hears the groan of the pipes as the shower shuts off. He’s a full chapter into his crime novel when he hears Sherlock clunk down the hall and then the slow, meticulous single steps down the staircase. Sherlock limps across the sitting room and into the kitchen, and John hears the back door click open and slam shut. A few minutes later, John can smell a whiff of cigarette smoke wafting through the open kitchen window and rolls his eyes.

A recuperating Sherlock for a week is hard.   A recuperating Sherlock who is also in a massive sulk someplace he doesn’t want to be for a week is torture. He’ll have to go out there. Eventually. He’ll let him finish the cigarette first.

John looks around the small sitting room while he waits. It’s comfortably shabby; well-worn wooden floors and a threadbare antique Persian, along with a stone fireplace and mantel. The windows are large and bright, and the current furniture isn’t awful, but of course they’ll have to bring their chairs up, as soon as possible. The panes in the windows need to be replaced, which of course will come with an asbestos abatement that usually accompanies changing window panes in a building as old as this one. The kitchen through the arching entryway is relatively new; Janine replaced all the appliances and counter-tops before selling. There’s an empty dining room they’ll need a table for.

John gives Sherlock a good ten minutes before heaving himself off the sofa (his back cracking in protest) and heading out the back door with his scotch. Sherlock is sitting on the stone steps off the porch, staring blankly out into the blackness of the field behind the cottage. The cane is propped against the mortared stone edging of the steps. His left leg is settled out in front of him, knee bent at the slight angle that is most comfortable. His shoulders are drooping slightly.

“I hope you put out the cigarette before you threw it,” John drops down to the top step, setting his glass down. He presses a kiss to the nape of Sherlock’s neck and waits a beat for Sherlock to respond. He doesn’t, so John dives in. “I assume you deduced why I wanted to come up here?”

“Obviously, John,” Sherlock grunts.

“And?”

“And it’s utterly ridiculous. We are not ready to leave London.”

“I think we are. We’ve found someplace you love, and you do, and I know you want to get on with your bees…”

“We are not ready to retire, John.”

“Ok, love…but, the last time we were up here you wouldn’t shut up about what you were going to do when we finally moved up here permanently, you talked about it for weeks. And, well Sherlock, you destroyed your knee from tripping over a pile of clothes. That you left there! And for months you’ve been complaining that since Greg received his promotion the cases have been worthless…not to mention when I cut my hand on that fence you practically ordered me to stay home going forward. It seemed like it was maybe time to suggest making this more permanent…you were always so happy here. And you love talking about your plans…”

“I don’t want to come up here. Not yet.”

“Sherlock, this isn’t some underhanded suggestion that you’re old and can’t do it anymore. But…wouldn’t it be a good idea to quit while you’re ahead? Move on and do what you want to do next?”

“I’m not worried about me, John, or The Work. I don’t need The Work, I haven’t for a long time. But it’s not time. Not yet.”

“Ok…so if this isn’t about you, and The Work, then maybe tell me what it is about?” John reaches out to ruffle the back of Sherlock’s head, the gray strands working their way into the black glinting in the light from the lamp above the door. He stiffens and moves his head forward a bit, away from John’s touch. “Sherlock…” John reaches in front of them and takes his hand, twining their fingers together.

“If we retire, and come up here and I get bees and devote myself to them, what will you do?”

“What do you mean, ‘what will I do?’”

“What will you do, John? What about you?”

“I don’t know Sherlock…I figured if we’re retired, I’d be…retired?”

“See? It’s ridiculous. We’re not ready yet.”

“Sherlock, I don’t think you understand the point of retiring…”

“John, retiring is stopping. It is being bored and relaxing and having nothing pressing. Nothing on. And we’ll come up here and you’ll have nothing. And then what?”

“What do you mean, and ‘then what?’”

“John…you love the running and the danger and the life we lead. Led. It was the basis of our friendship and every other thing in our lives. I can amuse myself, despite my constant complaining otherwise. And with the bees…I’d never get bored. But you, John,” Sherlock looks at a spot on the cobblestone path just beyond his left foot. It’s slightly heftier than his right, still carrying a bit of fluid from lack of efficient use. “Without that, if I can’t give you that danger and excitement anymore…John, don’t tell me I’m wrong, the last time you settled into a quiet, domestic life, you were bored to the point of senselessness in a month. And you still had the surgery to work at! I can be happy here, and I’d be happy anywhere you were, but you’ll get bored and unhappy,” Sherlock’s voice drops to barely a whisper. “And then what.”

It’s not a question, but rather a statement of resignation. John feels his chest compress under the weight of what Sherlock is suggesting. No, outright saying. And apparently, what he is completely resigned to, as if it was only a matter of time before reality choked out a dream that was, in fact, too good to be true: that John was happy with Sherlock and their life.

But if that life were to change, then what?

John’s long known of Sherlock’s deep-seated insecurities and abysmal sense of self-worth. But this, even after fifteen (good, amazing, spectacular) years; even while sitting pressed together on the stone steps of a cottage they own, together, both their names on the deed; even with Sherlock’s long fingers twisting and rubbing on the platinum band _he_ placed on John’s finger…the fact that he still believes, even a bit, that John is more in love with the lifestyle Sherlock could once provide him than with Sherlock himself, is absolutely gutting. John’s heart aches, not for himself (well, a bit), but because the most singularly amazing creature in all the universe still holds himself in such low regard.

“Jesus, Sherlock…” John swallows hard against a lump the size of a boulder in his throat. He’s not good at these things, neither of them are, even after having spent fifteen years wearing each other’s rings. These conversations, on the rare occasions they happened, usually happened huddled under a duvet and in the pitch black, where they could each whisper fears into the dark still semi-removed from the other. Sitting like this, under the buzzing light from above the old door, feels like being in a spotlight. John knows the courage Sherlock had to summon to give voice to his fears.

He has to find his, for Sherlock. But how does one sufficiently address the bone-deep, all-consuming devotion (bordering on unhealthy codependency), to someone who still thinks John only desires him because he can offer a cheap thrill and some adrenaline?

A few moments pass. “John…”

“No, shut up, Sherlock, I’m thinking,” John clears his throat. “I’m thinking of how to best explain this to you, because for a genius, you really are a fucking idiot. So, just shut up and sit with me while I try to figure out how to say this.”

Sherlock continues to stare at the invisible spot on the stone, hissing in discomfort as he shifts and resettles his new, titanium-alloy knee. Instinctively, John reaches out and places a hand on Sherlock’s warm thigh, shifting closer to offer the comfort of touch. And in a startling moment of clarity, John thinks he has it.

“Sherlock, I’m not going to tell you you were wrong about when I was with Mary, because yes, I was bored as shit. I hated it. God, I hated it. It was awful, mowing lawns and driving and neighbors, especially when all the while I knew you were across the city, doing whatever it was you were doing at Baker Street. Especially knowing you were there, doing those things, after two fucking years of thinking you were gone, that I’d never see you or hear you or yell at you again…I’d have given anything to hear you call me an idiot again, and then you were back and I was somewhere else, while you were having adventures or doing whatever it was you were doing. I wasn’t there and I hated every Goddamn minute of it.

“Then that awful woman shot you, and I told you I was done, and that I was coming home. You remember that?” John presses his nose directly into Sherlock’s ear. He smells like shampoo and a bit of cigarette. His curls, still mostly black but with more grays than either of them would ever admit, are still damp from the shower.

“Obviously, John,” Sherlock huffs.

“And for, what, three months? Four? How much danger and excitement did we see?”

“We were planning—”

“No, Mycroft was planning. We didn’t do shit until two weeks before Christmas. What did we do, Sherlock?”

“Nothing. It was hateful.”

“Yes, love. Nothing. You bitched and moaned and sulked and I sat there and made you do your breathing exercises and take your pills and watched you bitch and moan and sulk. And I worked a bit and you did some cold cases when you were off the morphine and then some experiments that I had to then clean up, and that was pretty much it, and goddammit Sherlock, I was the happiest I’d been in three fucking years. Sherlock. Because I was back where I belonged, with you, and you wanted me there.”

“But we knew—”

“No, Sherlock. NO. I didn’t care. I wouldn’t have cared. Because I was where I belonged. And even though we couldn’t risk actually doing anything until everything was settled, we knew where we were and that neither one of us was leaving. And I knew then I would have been happy if that’s all it ever was. Were you unhappy?”

“No. Worried, but…no, John. I wasn’t unhappy.”

“Exactly, love. Even though for all intents and purposes it was a boring few months, even by ordinary standards. Because we were both where we needed to be.

“Sherlock, we’re getting old—no, don’t make that face, we are—and the fact is that we’re getting slower. I’m going to be 55 this year, and you just had a knee-replacement and still need to use my cane most of the time and will for a long while…and fuck, Sherlock, I would rather get bored and have to look for things to do than worry that at any time, one of us could be just a bit too slow. Because then neither of us will be where we’re supposed to be, which is together, yeah?”

“Your blood glucose is also too high much of the time.”

“And you need reading glasses, dickhead.”

“I most certainly do not.”

“Do, too. Anyway, I’d rather have 35 boring years more, than anything less than that just to stay ‘exciting.’ Wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose…”

“And it’s not like we have to just stop. But Mrs. Hudson is with her niece and we’re already renting out her old flat. We could still go back whenever we want, help Greg a bit until he retires, and Mycroft, just…less running around and shooting things.”

“But I like when you shoot things. It does tremendous things for my libido.”

“Then,” John presses a chaste kiss to a sharp cheekbone. “We can set up a clay skeet thrower. Beyond where you want to put your hives. I can shoot things that don’t shoot back. You know,” another kiss, “for the good of your libido.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock grunts, but John can see the start of a smile quirking at his lips. “What else would you do, besides shooting clay discs for the benefit of my penis?”

“I dunno,” John shifts closer to Sherlock and pulls his curly, damp head down to his shoulder. “I always planned on writing up the old blog, formally. Maybe some gardening in the spring and summer, plant exotic flowers for your bees,” he kisses the top of Sherlock’s head. “Mostly, I think I’ll spend my time chasing my husband around all this land like a dirty, letchy old man.”

“Not through the apiary. We can’t disturb the bees.”

“Of course not, dear. How many are you going to start with?”

“Ten or fifteen, I think, to start. The foraging land around our acreage is quite good, plus if you plant flowers, we could probably maintain 20 or 25, however I wouldn’t want to start with that until I’ve roosted a season at least.”

“See? That’s exciting.”

“Yes, the criminal underbelly of London has nothing on the danger of honeybees.”

“Well,” John strokes his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “You know, you can turn allergic at any time. That’s exciting.”

“Yes, but if I get stung enough times, I may become sufficiently desensitized. In fact, many experts recommend receiving at least eight or ten stings per season.”

“And then I’d have to rub ointment all over you. It’d be awful. Just like I do when you explode something in the kitchen, which I’m sure you’ll figure out how to do here, too.”

“Mmmmmmm….” Sherlock hums, and relaxes further into John’s embrace. They’re silent for several long moments, relishing the warmth of the other in the cool night air. It’s so quiet, so different than the loud sounds and constant hum of the city, and John can already feel himself starting to settle into what could potentially become their new life. Bees and honey and gardening and quiet evenings writing, all encompassed by the warm, comforting knowledge that the other is safe and content just a few feet away.

“You know,” John breaks the comfortable silence. “We don’t have to decide it all now. And so much work has to be done before we can live here year-round, but…it’s kind of nice to think about, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Sherlock pulls John’s hand into his lap and strokes over the veins—more prominent now—running over the top of his wrist. “A new adventure…albeit a quieter one.”

“A little quiet never hurt anyone, my love,” John kisses Sherlock’s head again, then pulls his hand from Sherlock’s and reaches back behind him to get the tumbler of scotch he brought with him out onto the porch. He takes a sip, and Sherlock’s long fingers come up to take the glass from him. He swallows the rest of the scotch, grimacing against John’s neck.

“That was awful.”

“Well, I found in in the cupboard above the fridge.”

“Aren’t you always telling me not to drink liquids I find lying about?”

“Heh!” John huffs a fond laugh and wraps his other arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. His frame is fuller than it used to be; not thick in the least, just more substantial, and he no longer swims in John’s relatively short arms. He hasn’t in a while. John has always considered his getting Sherlock Holmes to a BMI of almost 20 one of his greatest achievements. “You think,” John whispers into Sherlock’s forehead, the overlong curls (just slightly coarser than they were fifteen years ago) tickling his nose. “You wanna fool around? It’s been awhile…you think your knee is up for it?”

“It has not been ‘awhile!’” Sherlock huff and pulls away in mock indignation. “My mouth and hands are still fully functional, in fact, I performed fellatio on you just two nights ago!”

“That you did, but I mean _fool around_ , fool around,” John exaggeratedly wiggles his eyebrows and tugs gently on the tag of Sherlock’s inside-out t-shirt.

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. “You can say, ‘penetrative sex,’ John. As you so astutely pointed out in so many words, we aren’t teenagers.”

“When have I ever called it that, Sherlock?”

“Never. In fact, that atrocious blog taught me twenty years ago that it is highly unlikely your vocabulary includes a word with so many syllables. I don’t know why I ever expect it to change,” Sherlock arches an eyebrow, but his tone is entirely without malice; his voice is soft and fond, his words the easy, gentle needling that is par for the course for them after such a heavy conversation.

“Well, maybe I should start, prove you wrong and sweep you off your feet with my expansive vocabulary. Is your knee up for ‘penetrative sex,’ Sherlock?”

“You always were a romantic, John. It’s ridiculous,” Sherlock sniffs, but leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to John’s lips. “Yes,” his breath ghosts over John’s cheek as he pulls back slightly, “I think my knee is up for it.”

“Good,” John breathes and captures Sherlock’s open mouth, their tongues immediately coming together. John is sitting on a step higher than Sherlock, and pulls off his mouth with a slurp as he scoots back to stand. Sherlock looks up at John with wide eyes, glazed bright in the lamplight, lips parted and already turning bright pink. He suddenly looks 20 years younger, and John’s head swims. He would swear he can literally feel the blood drop from his head down into his groin. Even after all this time, Sherlock’s flesh hasn’t even begun to lose a bit of the allure it held that very first night. “Come on then.”

John hops to his feet, and watches with amusement as Sherlock grabs for his cane, awkwardly pushing himself to his feet. Being four weeks out, he’s not so much hampered by pain as by stiffness and learning to adjust to a joint without nerve receptors. John would never admit it out loud, and generally feels a bit guilty, but Sherlock is quite adorable limping about. And frankly, the git deserves it a bit, especially considering he hasn’t done any of his exercises today.

“Did you do your steps today?” John asks as Sherlock steps up on stair at a time, pushing up with his healing leg, knowing very well he most certainly did not.

“What answer won’t derail tonight’s proceedings?” Sherlock looks down at John when he reaches the porch, his lips tilting in a sly smirk.

“Oh, I’m too far gone for any derailing,” John looks pointedly down at the front of his jeans, which has bulged nicely.

“I see,” Sherlock takes a step forward, crowding into John’s space. There’s an answering swell already in his filmy cotton pajama pants.

“Upstairs,” he reaches out and takes Sherlock’s large hand, pulling him slowly through the door and through the kitchen, Sherlock’s cane clunking on the wood floors as he hobbles behind him. In the past, when they were younger and everything was still frantic and new, the grabbing and groping would begin as soon as one or the other expressed any remote intent. Sometimes—a lot of the time—they never made it to the bedroom even if that was the original plan. But this is nice too, knowing they have time, knowing the desire will last as long as they want it to, and also knowing that no injuries will be incurred en route. Several shin cuts and broken toes were sustained in the early days of their relationship.

“Alright, love?” John turns when they reach the wooden stairs, surprisingly wide for a cottage of this size.

“I’m not an invalid, John,” Sherlock scowls and gingerly takes a step up.

“Mmmmhmmm,” John ruffles his hand through Sherlock’s peppery curls, chuckling softly as he steps up once. Then again. And again. John steps up slowly himself, still holding his hand and ready to jump if Sherlock loses his footing. He knows he won’t, that Sherlock is more slow and stiff than bodily weak, but John is ever the doctor and Sherlock’s protector.

“Ughhhhh,” Sherlock groans when they finally reach the second floor. “This is hateful. It’s awful, John.”

“Sherlock, if you did your exercises as assigned your leg would get stronger much faster.”

“I’m going to have to go down them in the morning,” Sherlock looks at John and wrinkles his nose. Once again, he looks about twenty years old.

“Well,” John raises his head and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s dramatically pouting lips. “I plan on making it difficult for you to walk in another way too, so maybe you can get some breakfast in bed.”

“Oh,” Sherlock’s breath huffs out of his perfectly o-shaped mouth.

“Unless you were thinking the other way…want me to ride you, sweetheart?” John starts walking backwards into the large bedroom, gently pulling Sherlock along to the large bed.

“No,” Sherlock breathes. “I want you inside me. I want you to hold me.”

“I think I can make that work,” John switches into full-seduction mode, lifting up to kiss Sherlock. He deftly licks between Sherlock’s lips, and the cane clatters to the floor and Sherlock’s large hands come up to hold his face. The kiss rapidly grows heated and messy, and when John pulls back a few minutes later, Sherlock’s lips are swollen and glossy wet with saliva. The familiar flush is rising on his cheeks, curls falling over his forehead. John loves him like this.

“You’re all stubbly,” Sherlock rubs his thumbs on John’s cheeks. “And you taste like mint and scotch.” He leans down for another slick kiss. John sucks on his tongue a bit.

“I could grow a beard,” he moves his mouth to Sherlock’s white neck, sucks gently on where his pulse throbs under the delicate skin. “Rub it all over this perfect skin and leave little burns instead of love bites.” Sherlock giggles into John’s ear, then gasps as he bites his earlobe, his hips pushing forward into John’s belly. The jerk causes his to lose his balance where he’s favoring his leg, and John darts to catch his elbows and steady him. “Careful,” he whispers into Sherlock’s blood-hot cheek. “Here, down on the bed, darling…slowly.”

Sherlock allows John to guide him down on his back onto the bed, letting him arrange his legs gently. Sherlock usually huffs and groans, but John knows he relishes being cared for, especially in their bed. “Just as pretty as the first time I saw you,” John presses a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, then steps back to shuck his cardigan and jeans.

“Normally I do that,” Sherlock pushes himself up on his elbows to watch as John pulls his t-shirt over his head. He’s not quite as fit as he used to be, the softness over his belly harder to control than it used to be, but his arms and legs are still sufficiently muscled and tight and Sherlock still licks his lips as John crawls onto the bed over him.

“I know, but it’s easier this way in your delicate condition.”

Sherlock snorts as John tangles his hands in Sherlock’s curls and pulls his head up for another long, deep, kiss. John snakes his hands under Sherlock’s t-shirt, lifting it and breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it off, before diving back in. Sherlock’s pelvis, which is still covered in entirely too much cloth, lifts off the mattress and presses into John’s. John sucks in a hard breath, pulling the air from Sherlock’s lungs and causing him to break the kiss, gasping.

“John…”

“I know, beautiful boy,” John starts kissing down Sherlock’s neck and over the mottled red flush on his chest, pausing to lick and nibble at one perfect pink nipple. The sparse, soft hair smattering his white skin tickles John’s face. “I’m getting there.” He kisses down further, pausing to poke his tongue into Sherlock’s navel. John rubs his stubbled face against Sherlock’s white belly, and looks up and quirks an eyebrow. “This would be the perfect place to leave some beard-burns.”

“Not now, John,” Sherlock dramatically throws his head back and wriggles his hips under John so his erection brushes against John’s bare chest through the soft cotton.

“Yes, yes, I’m going. No pants, I see, you impatient cock,” he tugs the tapes of Sherlock’s pajamas open and starts pulling them down his hips.

“Yes, my cock is very impatient, John,” Sherlock sighs as his erection is freed, springing to lie flush with his still-taut belly. The pink head is peaking out of his foreskin, glistening with precome. John pauses his undressing to lean forward and gently suckles on the smooth glans.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, tonguing the weeping slit while Sherlock gasps and jerks above him. “Careful, love,” John presses his hand against Sherlock’s left thigh gently. He straightens as Sherlock whimpers and continues to pull the soft material gingerly down his legs. John cradles Sherlock’s left ankle as he pulls the cotton trousers off, stabilizing his leg and gently lowering back to the mattress. The incisions are healing very well, but the neat lines are still bright pink and harsh against Sherlock’s porcelain skin. John leans over and gently brushes his lips against the skin over Sherlock’s new, alloy patella. It feels different against his mouth, slightly sharper and smoother than bone would. “Alright, love?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock’s head is thrown back, one arm thrown over his face. His other hand picks and fiddles at the soft duvet in anticipation.

“You’re so exquisite,” John crawls back over him, and reaches to give his hot, hard shaft two quick tugs. And it’s true; Sherlock is still achingly beautiful, not quite as sharp as he was when John first saw him like this, and his bones no longer stick out enough to cast shadows, but he’s still sleek and lithely muscled, and an absolute sight to behold. John releases him and bends to kiss the soft skin on his hip. “Turn on your right side for me, sweetheart. Yes, like that,” John guides Sherlock over to his side. He reaches up and snags a pillow, then gently guides Sherlock’s left leg forward a bit so his knee is just slightly flexed. He stuffs the pillow under it, settling his leg much like he does when he sleeps, but exposing enough of his backside that John will have unimpeded access. “Alright?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock grumbles, pushing up on one arm to look back at John. “It’s a knee replacement, not glass. It won’t break.”

“Yes, well,” John bends and nips the back of Sherlock’s thigh, producing a yelp. “I want you to be comfortable, my love,” he settles on his stomach, propped on his elbows. “Because I plan on spending a bit of time with you in this position.” John grabs two globes of firm, white flesh and spreads them, then runs his tongue from the base of Sherlock’s balls up to the sharp divot of his coccyx.

“Oh, OH!” Sherlock gasps into the duvet, jerking a bit. John pulls back to take a look.

“Gorgeous,” he purrs, then places his open mouth against the pink furl between Sherlock’s buttocks.

“Ohhhh, John…” he hears Sherlock moan as he swirls his tongue over the soft muscle. One of Sherlock’s large hands reaches back to press against John’s skull as he sucks and licks, teasing the silky, crinkled skin with gentle presses. When Sherlock is positively quivering against him, he moves lower and sucks on one testicle, then the other, then gently reaches and maneuvers his leaking cock back to his mouth. John suckles gently, just for a moment, and Sherlock gasps above him.

“Sherlock, my love,” John tongues his scrotum again.

“Oh…yes, John…”

“Please tell me you put the lube in the drawer,” he moves back to Sherlock’s pink hole, slick with saliva, and swirls his tongue over it again.

“I—oh!—I put the lube in the drawer…”

“Oh, thank God,” John pulls away and sits up, yanking his gray briefs over his throbbing, aching erection. “Brilliant boy,” he kisses the crest of Sherlock’s hip, then shifts so he can simultaneously reach one hand up towards the nightstand and the other back down between Sherlock’s buttocks. He yanks the drawer open, grabbing the small bottle just as the tip of this middle finger presses into Sherlock’s anus, eased by the copious amount of saliva he left there.

“Oh, OH!” Sherlock jerks as John’s finger sinks in, gripping the duvet as if for dear life. John’s finger slides in easily, and it almost feels as though the flutters of Sherlock’s muscles are actually trying to pull him in, drag him into the velvet heat of his body.

“That’s it, darling, relax for me,” John twists his wrist and crook his finger forward just a bit, pressing gently against Sherlock’s prostate. He’s met with the telltale flurry of muscle contractions around his finger and his cock jerks and pulses as Sherlock gasps loudly.

“It’s been awhile, sweetheart,” John wriggles his finger a bit, then slides it out and uncaps the lube. Sherlock lies motionless as John pours a copious amount on the fingers of his right hand then reaches down to run them around the tight knot of muscle. “I can tell…you’re so tight…I’m going to add a second now…” John pushes two fingers into, the resistance stronger than with just one finger, and Sherlock stiffens a bit beneath him. “Alright?”

“Yes, John—oh!” John scissors his fingers a bit and is met with a gasp. “How, oh fuck, how many times are you going to ask me that—oh fuck, John, another, another! More.”

“Alright, love, relax for me, bear down a bit…yes, that’s it, love,” John slides a third finger, the tight muscle contracting and pulling around his fingers delightfully. “God, you’re so hot and perfect inside…so perfect,” John leans down and presses his lips to the nape of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s hips start shifting back, pushing back against John’s thrusting fingers as John nuzzles and likes the sweat away from Sherlock’s skin.

“John, please,” Sherlock whines into the duvet, “I’m ready, I’m ready.”

“You sure, love?” John twists his wrist, three fingers brushing against the nub of swollen tissue inside Sherlock.

“Yes, YES! Please…”

“Alright, alright Sherlock,” John pulls his fingers out slowly and frantically grabs for the lube, pouring more to slick himself up. He shifts to line himself up, leaning over Sherlock’s body and pressing himself forward just slightly. “Ready?” He whispers into the top of Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Yes, yes—oh!” Sherlock groans and stiffens as John pushes forward, sinking into the snug heat of Sherlock’s body in one smooth motion. They’ve done this hundreds, closer to thousands, of times, and John knows it will never, ever get old. He loves it the other way too, loves feeling Sherlock’s stiff length invade him, but knowing he’s the only person who’s ever done this, who has ever been allowed to see and feel Sherlock this way, is overwhelming. “Fuck, Sherlock…shit, you’re so fucking tight…are you alright?”

“John…”

“Shhhh…relax my love, just breath and relax. Jesus, fuck, you’re so fucking tight…it’s been too long…”

“Much too long,” Sherlock exhales slowly between his teeth, one hand reaching back to palm John’s hip. “Move. Please. John.”

John starts to move, slowly, pushing in and out just slightly at first, until he feels the resistance of Sherlock’s body relax just enough to where he can thrust in earnest. John wraps both arms around Sherlock, palms pressing into his chest, and it’s wonderful; he’s pressed fully flush against Sherlock’s back, rocking them both towards oblivion while Sherlock gasps and moans and clutches at him.

“Turn a bit, love, let me kiss you,” John stops moving so he can push himself up and reach Sherlock’s mouth, kissing him awkwardly from behind, and when he starts moving again Sherlock’s gasp at the new angle is so visceral John can’t help but laugh. “There, huh?” He murmurs against Sherlock’s face as his eyes slide closed and he whimpers.

“Oh, God, John…there, keep doing—fuck…” Sherlock’s head drops into the crook of John’s shoulder where his arm is caged around him, and John knows neither of them will last long now. He’s steadily driving directly against Sherlock’s prostate and Sherlock is whimpering and twitching around him…it won’t be long at all.

“Let me,” John reaches down and takes Sherlock’ left thigh, gently lifting it up and over his leg, careful not to jostle his knee. His mouth fills with saliva as Sherlock’s cock is revealed to him: he’s flushed dark and steadily leaking against his belly. “Touch yourself, love…I can tell you’re close…”

Sherlock reaches for his cock, moaning loudly as he wraps his hand around his shaft.

“That’s it…stroke for me,” John hooks his chin over Sherlock’s shoulder so he can watch as he continues to thrust. “I can feel you…you’re so close…”

“I’m so close, John,” Sherlock gasps, twisting his fist over his erection. “So close, please…please, John…”

“Oh, yes, fuck, Sherlock,” John feels Sherlock tense and shiver around his shaft, then his back arches and he jerks. John watches as one, two spurts of come dance up Sherlock’s abdomen, his body rippling around John’s shaft and he’s still coming as the heat in John’s groin seizes and explodes in a flash of white. He thrusts and stills, pouring into Sherlock’s body while a gush of air heaves out of Sherlock’s lungs. “Oh, fuck, fuck Sherlock...” John rocks again, pressing through the aftershocks as Sherlock’s body relaxes and crumples in John’s embrace, shrinking against the mattress. John thrusts a few more times, until he’s sure he’s completely spent, then gently guides Sherlock’s leg back down to rest on the pillow.

“Mmmmmm,” Sherlock rumbles breathlessly when John leans down to gently nibble at his cheek, settling flush against his back again and reaching to run his hands over the mess on Sherlock’s belly.

“Heh,” John chuckles after a few breathless moments. “Not bad for two old men, eh?”

“Not at all, John,” Sherlock turns his head to nuzzle against John’s neck. “Quite extraordinary for two old men, if I can say so myself.”

“Well, not ‘old.’ Just _older_.” John kisses Sherlock’s temple. “Your leg okay, sweetheart?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock sighs and settles down against the mattress.

“Good,” John shifts and Sherlock gasps slightly as he pulls out. He gives him another kiss on the temple then rolls over to the side of the bed. “Gonna grab a flannel.”

“Hmmmm…”

John pads into the large ensuite and opens a cabinet to grab a flannel. He flicks the faucet on and cleans himself off, then rinses and takes a moment to look around the loo before going back into the bedroom.

There’s a lot of work to be done. The tile floor needs to be replaced and probably the radiator, too; in fact he should have someone look at the entire heating system before next winter. The pipes too…and this is only the loo. But, with a little work, it’ll be livable. And John knows they’ll both be very happy, even if they do get a bit bored occasionally.

“John!” Sherlock calls from the bedroom. “We can get a dog!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of John growing a beard to rub all over Sherlock was inspired by [allonsys_girl's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl) story, [Of Razors, Pipes, Red Notebooks and Rugby Jerseys, Or: Sherlock Doesn't Like His Doctors Clean Shaven](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2000214), because who doesn't love John with a beard to rub all over Sherlock.


End file.
